Troubleshooting
by stilettov
Summary: Jim Moriarty thought he knew everything there was to know about Molly Hooper, and Molly Hooper thought she knew all there was to know about herself. Wrong! Long one-shot, PWP, graphic, violent imagery and dark themes. NC-17.


Getting hired for the job hadn't presented any obstacle for Jim, especially after he'd arranged for the previous occupant to drown quietly in the Thames in the dead of night, and it was a nice change, working first hand again after so long. For the most part, he just hovered in the background, quickly and quietly to rectifying simple hardware malfunctions, or else give prolonged tutorials to the aged bureaucrats on basic computing tasks. It was hardly taxing, and Jim wasn't really afforded the opportunity to utilise his skills, but it didn't bother him. As long as it didn't interfere with his agenda, he could be patient, happy to smile at the oldsters, ask after their families, or their mistresses. Meanwhile, he gleaned information, skimming off the top every time he got the chance. Soon, he had access to most of the staff email, and a good working knowledge of what passed through the network on a daily basis.

Side stepping the laborious task of reading each of the missives, he wrote a program that marked key phrases, to be cycled through at his leisure. This was how he'd started tracking the pattern of unauthorised entry into the labs. He'd known about this in advance, of course, having set a tail on his quarry from the first. That was just incidental. The real question was, who was the person who had allowed him access?

Then he'd seen her, storming into the staff room. Then he'd understood. Dashing away tears, face an angry red, big doe eyes and a small, pert mouth.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid Molly, fetching him coffee again..."

"What's stupid about that?" he'd asked innocently, eyes flickering over the badge: Molly Hooper, Staff Pathologist.

She jumped. She hadn't noticed him in the corner, which was no surprise, since he was mastered at hiding in plain sight. Quiet and unassuming. Don't mind Jim.

"Oh," she said, her mouth going round. She was birdlike, with thin, narrow features, but not in an unattractive way. She reminded him of a sparrow. As she looked at him, her large dark eyes told him the whole story. He wondered that someone of such a school-girlish stripe would make a career of cutting up corpses, but that was less important than the fact that she was the person he'd been looking for. Sherlock's little turn key.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "Rough day?"

"Yes," she said on a harsh breath, a sudden bolt of honesty breaking through the fluster. "No. Well. It's..."

"Stupid?"

"Yeah," she ran a hand through her hair. "Just a miscommunication, that's all."

"Sounds like more than that," Jim said, applying a soft tone. "If you want to talk about it."

"No, thanks," she said, grinning in embarrassment. "I'm sure I've bothered you enough, you look busy. I should go."

This was a blatant lie. He certainly didn't look busy. He had been thumbing his Blackberry, ignoring a danish that was growing stale on a plate, making plans later that evening for a fitting, and then a spot of supper at a nice Thai restaurant in which he owned shares. He couldn't really defend that as busy, but he wasn't going to take that step yet.

He gave her a friendly smile, calculatedly non-threatening. "If you change your mind. My name's Jim."

She smiled. "I'm Molly. I haven't seen you around here, are you new?"

He nodded. "Tech. They hired me after the last guy stopped coming to work."

Molly nodded. "I heard about that. Guess you'll be the one fixing things now."

He smiled a genuine smile and told the absolute truth. "That's right."

"Well," she said, brushing herself off like she was sweeping away the bad feelings. "I'll give you a ring if anything breaks, shall I?"

He added "Hooper, Molly" to the tracking program. With a little coordination, he was able to synchronise with the security cameras. He studied the interaction between the girl and the target. The body language could not be more clear; she, bouncing on the balls of her feet, him with his abrupt, businesslike about-face, all hints of artificial affection vanishing. Poor Molly, trying to figure out what to do with her hands. The sting must have been keen. Poor thing.

He waited. The incident with the cab driver cost him a profitable scalp hunting operation, but it was worth it, just to get the flavour of the man he was now considering making a serious adversary. It was worth the loss of the jade pin, too, to watch him play the Hooper girl with the same deftness with which he played that exquisite Stradivarius. It was worth the 9 million, worth dismantling the Black Lotus, just to get a glimpse of Molly's face as she realised he'd been faking it, and finished with her, wordlessly delete her from the equation.

It was infinitely worse than rejection; it was indifference. She made a good show of not having noticed until she made it to her office. She locked herself in, sobbed herself silly while he looked on in black and white. Looked on as she violently pulled the side pony tail out, gripped her hair tightly in one hand, and whispered a litany of "stupid, stupid, stupid" into her desk blotter.

He flicked the enter key, and the virus he'd designed to mask all of the pathology records surged through the network. They would disappear from view, and he would be sent for. He watched as she logged in, went to adjust her list, and frustration that blossomed on her face. After a couple of frenzied stabs at the keyboard, she finally turned to the phone and punched up the main switchboard.

"God, I'm glad you're here," she said, looking even more overwrought in person. "I'm about to lose my mind."

"Don't do that," he said with another amicable smile. "What's wrong?"

"All of my files," she said, giving the monitor a contemptuous slap. "They've all disappeared. I can't find them anywhere. And then I just got this error message."

"Relax," he said, sidling up to her, just a hair closer than was colleague. "I'm sure we can take care of it."

"I'm sorry. It's just been..." she trailed off, avoided his gaze by looking at the blue screen.

Jim made a show of typing a few random commands, making text scroll along in a DOS field. Then, he bit his lip, playing out the expression of puzzlement. He could, of course, fix it in a heartbeat, but that would interrupt his timing, and good timing was a subtle thing. He cocked his head, and looked at her. "Hmm. I'm not really sure what's happened here. But maybe..."

Barts' computers were almost never turned off, and mounted in the desks in such a way that would it very difficult indeed to flip the power switch, or even reach the power strip. Jim didn't hesitate, but went right down on his back, pulling himself up under the desk and sliding under the case that was mounted to the desk, so he could reach the switch. Even in her distress, he could feel Molly's eyes appraising him as his shirt slid up his torso. He popped the switch, waited for the machine to power down, then flicked it on again.

He pulled himself out from under the desk, a bit worse for wear as his £200 Burberry button-down shirt was now covered in dust, but it gave him a roguish appearance that he knew would not go unnoticed.

"Let's see what we've got," he said, leaning across her to reach for the mouse. She typed in the password for him, and they waited as it logged in. There, in the master file, was the list. He felt rather than saw her let out a sigh of relief.

"Oh, thank God. You're a saint."

"Not hardly," he said quietly. "Sometimes, you just need a restart."

"I didn't even think of that."

"Happens to the best of us."

She nodded, and smiled a little sadly, a little wistfully. The opportunity had presented itself. He slid through the gap.

"Molly, listen," he began, adding an anxious scratching of his hair, worrying the dust out of it. "If you're not doing anything later, would you...like to go for coffee, or something? Or maybe a drink?"

"I, uh-" she turned to look at him, deer in the headlights. "Sorry?"

"Coffee. With me," he repeated, and dropping the shy-boy act, he gave her the full measure of his large black eyes. "Unless you're busy."

"No," she said, a bit too quickly. "I mean, no, I'm not busy. I'd...I'd really like that, Jim."

"Great. After work?"

She nodded, and all of the crushed anguish had evaporated in sparkly bright surprise. He almost felt tempted to do something violent, rip that innocence right out of her chest and feast on it in front of her. No. Time enough for that later. Time enough for when she would give him everything he wanted, and probably a lot that he didn't.

Coffee ended up being put aside in favour of drinks at the Fox. After a long discussion about her cat, and a less annoying discourse on how she arrived at pathology ("I wanted to be a doctor, but I'm too much of a coward to operate on a living person.") they finally landed on the topic he had been most anxious to discuss.

"His name is Sherlock," she said, gazing down into her gin and tonic. "He's...well, he's brilliant."

"He's a detective? Like from the films?"

"Yeah," she said, and there was just a faint glimmer of pride. "I try to give him a hand now and then. He can just be a little...well, I guess he's just very focused, because sometimes he says things that aren't..."

"Kind," Jim finished for her, laying down the fact as if he had already known it, which, of course, he did.

She nodded.

"You fancy him," he remarked, teasing her with a needle in hand.

She coloured deeply. "I do not."

"Oh, come on, you don't get that worked up over ripped jeans," he idly twisted his pint glass, making little rings on the surface of the table.

"You don't know," Molly said in an accusatory voice. "Maybe I do get that worked up over ripped jeans."

"Or losing your "client" list."

"Exactly," she said triumphantly, then grinned guiltily. "I guess I've been a bit..."

He cut her off with a raised hand. "Distracted. You were going to say distracted. Everyone gets distracted."

"I think I'm drunk," she laughed.

"I think you are."

"And you're not anything!"

"Hey now."

"I mean...God, you've had like..." Her eyes wandered over the set of empty pint glasses, and a few shot glasses with whiskey still pooled at the bottom.

"I'm an expensive date," he added a goofy grin to this lie. He was hammered. He was just really good at being hammered. He did feel a little more unwound, just a bit more interested in his companion, that dumb male instinct stepping forward and leading his thoughts in the direction of what she was wearing under that rose-patterned jumper. Probably very practical underwear. A sudden bolt of inspiration hit him.

"Did you ever shag him?"

Her glass made a small thunk as it dropped the half inch to the table. "What?"

"Did you shag him?"

"Jim!"

"You did, didn't you?"

"No!" she said, with an expression of appalled disbelief. Suddenly, the absurdity broke over her, and she couldn't stop herself from laughing. She laughed until she couldn't breathe, giggling in a way that actually kind of got him a bit hot under the collar. It was so unaffected, and a little bit adorable, really.

"I was just asking," he said innocently.

She hiccupped a little, then grinned. "You're a bit cheeky, aren't you?"

"Only a bit?"

She nodded, blowing air out through her mouth. She glanced down at her watch, and an expression of dismay crossed her face. "I didn't know it was this late. I have to work tomorrow."

"Maybe you should call in," he said, indicating the number of unoccupied old-fashioned glasses that flanked her.

"I haven't called in since..."

"2008."

Her eyes widened. "How did you know?"

"Lucky guess." Roguish wink. Jim the charmer.

"I really..." her eyes travelled over the empty glasses.

"Call in," Jim said softly, setting his glass down. His finger just barely brushed the inside of her wrist, but it lingered there just long enough to take her pulse. Around 90, and rising. Her eyes met his, and the agreement was unspoken.

Her place is only a few tube stops away, a little studio flat. Toby the cat has been pining for his mistress, but his presence is less offensive than Jim has been led to believe. It makes a figure eight around his ankles, a big fluffy orange thing. He leans down and picks it up, and he can almost feel Molly glow with pleasure. That's the key to her heart, making nice with her kitty cat. God, it's too easy.

"Would you like coffee? Or tea, or anything?" she asks, and there's a hint of excitement under her tone. She's been here before, he thinks, but it's been a long time. Anticipation. She knew what he was about from the moment they'd bypassed the Starbucks for the pub. She let him order for her three gin-and-tonics, a lemon drop and a shot of Silver Patron. She was letting go of the lovesick Molly and it suited her better. She was ripe, vulnerable. He had her just where he wanted her.

But Jim from IT was a gentleman. He wasn't going to play it out. She wanted him, badly, but she had to come get him. It had to be her choice. He set the cat on her bed, and went into the tiny kitchen. "I'll make it."

She acquiesced, sitting down on the bed next to the cat, who stretched out next to her. They chatted they waited for the kettle. He made sure to place himself just within arm's reach. Not too close, but close enough.

"I don't normally do this," she said.

"Get drunk?"

"No. Well. Any of it. I've been..."

"You work too hard," he remarked. "I've seen you, you know. Don't you get tired of being the dependable one? There are others. Why do you have to shoulder the burden yourself?"

She bit her lip, opened it to make some excuse, looked at her feet, then back at his face, and there was something harder there. "Because I'm the best. There's still the case with the Black Lotus, you know the smugglers."

"I heard about that," Jim said quietly, and then lied. "I didn't know you were working on it."

"Sherlock is working on it. So I'm working on it." Bitterness, now.

"I'd...like to hear about your work sometime." Tentative. A little awkward. Like he's afraid to ask.

She looked at him, her face full of mild surprise. "No one's ever been interested in my work."

"I can see why. They're scared. It is a little morbid," Jim observed. "But I think it's fascinating."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"Wow, that's...well. That's a bit weird, but...sweet. You've been so sweet, Jim, and all I've done is complain all night."

That certainly was true. But her anxiety had been a veritable mine of information, so he hadn't been bothered. No, it had been worth loosening her tongue. It would be worth whatever awkwardness followed. The kettle's switch had clicked, but neither of them noticed. Molly, whatever her flaws, had apparently decided to shelve the insecurity. She was angry. She was hurting. And he could tell she didn't care anymore.

She rose and he rose with her, waiting, baiting his breath in a supremely skilled performance of just-restrained-lust.

"Jim," she said softly.

"Yes?"

"I think...I'd like to go to bed with you."

"You think?" the smile that curled his lips was playful, a little seductive. "Are you sure?"

She stepped into him, and laid her hands on his chest. "Yeah, I'm sure."

She tilted her head upwards, just a slight angle, as he wasn't that much taller than her, and pressed her mouth against his. Soft, lips just parted enough that he could taste traces of citrus-alcohol. He opened his mouth to hers, just a little, enough to encourage. In no time at all, she had opened up, and wasn't so much kissing him as devouring him. The aching need was rising off her in waves, and now he could feel himself getting caught in it. It was an exercise, he knew. A stratagem. But just now, in this moment, his hands were quite interested in getting to know whatever was under that slightly cutesy turquoise blouse.

He didn't hesitate, letting his hands form around her curves, manoeuvring backwards on to the bed and pulling her into his lap. For all of her shyness, her innocence, there was something underneath it all that was selfish, and base. It was the same with anyone, he knew, but he wanted to get to know it better. That was where he would tap in, make her his, peel apart the layers and drink deeply from the well of her psyche.

She had her hands in short cropped hair, and now she was grinding against him in a way that had arrested his attention. He turned her on to the bed and hovered above her, then bending down to kiss her throat. He let his hands wander down, feel the shape of her breasts, divest her of the blouse, investigate the texture of the lace camisole she wore beneath it.

"You'll have to tell me what you like," she said frankly, even though her expression was a bit misty. "It's been...well, it's been a long time."

"I like you," he confided with a kiss, taking her hand and guiding it down to his abdomen. "I like the way you feel."

"Me too," she said, then laughed a little. "I mean...I like you, too."

Her hand moved of its own accord, suddenly determined, yanking down his fly and finding its way into his boxers. He was already hardening, but the sensation of her fingers on his skin made him go stiff as, well, a stiff. His mind wandered, and he considered vaguely that she must have a very good grasp of anatomy. She certainly had a good grasp on his anatomy. He was getting a little unfocused.

"Like this?" she asked, with a cautious smile.

"Yeah," he breathed, pressing himself into her hand. "Like that."

He let her tease him for a few more minutes before taking the situation in hand. Before long, he had her wet as October, using his skilled fingers to torment her, bringing her close to the edge, then holding back, sustaining the tension. By the time she had let out a little noise of protest, he had finally relented, settling between her thighs and pressing into her. His eyes were locked on hers as he made love to her, moving slowly, tender at first, then building the intensity. She watched him, too, eyes wide, rimmed with just the faintest sheen of tears. She gave himself to him completely, let go of all the barriers, trusted him as she had never, and would never trust Sherlock Holmes.

When she came, those tears that had gathered fell. She wept, gently, as her breasts heaved and she fought for breath. Jim kissed those tears away. She apologised, she but then gave into it. All of the hurt, all of the desperate loneliness came pouring out, and Jim lapped it up until it was gone. She felt safe with him now. She knew he was going to call back. She wasn't afraid of him losing interest.

And so it continued. They met up frequently after work. They went to films, and to Plymouth to meet mummy. All the while, Jim plugged her for information, the kind of information that was valueless to anyone else, but was immensely valuable to him. She gave it all up. She had not shifted all of her affections on to him (she still nursed a soft spot for Sherlock) but now she felt confident enough in herself to show off all the work she was doing, just how important she was in Sherlock's case, which was of course hardly at all, but she was happy in her delusion.

The only hiccup in their "relationship" was the one of Jim's own making. He'd been crafting a strategy for awhile, and he'd started to feel restless. He'd waited long enough. He rigged the charges himself, but deployed an operative to place them. He placed Carl's shoes himself while the landlady was shopping, took a snap of the room. Then he selected a victim, and sent his lads to work.

He was cuddling Molly as they watched the screen together, flames licking the sky as the building burned. They made love, talked, went to sleep. Molly went to work in the morning. Jim used his encrypted netbook, feeding information through the victim. Baiting the hook. Time to wait, time to act.

Playing gay had been a laugh riot. Sherlock's dismissive, cursory glance and quick appraisal had almost been disappointing, but Jim had to congratulate himself on escaping the detective's notice. He'd improvised the bit with the dish, getting a good look at the display on the screen. He was rather far along, Jim noticed, and made a mental note to tighten up the rules for the next move. He wish he'd thought of this sooner, but then, to be fair to himself, it was an entirely unexpected gift. He would have never thought, standing there at the deep end of the pool, watching the paramedics try and fail to revive little Carl, that he would have ever seen that skinny, curly-haired Holmes kid again. He remembered him clearly, being questioned sternly by a uniformed police officer, being told off for snooping around the locker room. He hadn't noticed Jim.

Now Sherlock was all growed up, and snooping around again. Watching him was fascinating. And his pet doctor, now, what was that about? He was so loyal, so dedicated, even though his so-called best friend casually stomped on him on a regular basis. Another mental note.

He'd gotten hell from Molly later, but then he made it up to her. He'd made it up to her for a good twelve hours, and she forgave him. Sherlock solved the case, and Jim contacted his associates, keeping the ball rolling. The car, the bint on the telly, the painting. The boy was a damn prodigy.

The dance had been wonderful. But now it was time to end it. Now it was time to drop it all. He was getting bored with playing it down. He was getting bored with little Molly Hooper.

So he was surprised when the buzzer went off in his burner flat in central London. He had just been adjusting the lapels of one of his beloved, beautifully cut Westwood suits. He was ready to step out of Jim from IT's trainers and t-shirts and back into Jim Moriarty's very fine leather loafers, shined to perfection. But it seemed the transition wasn't going to be as smooth as he expected.

Annoyed, he checked the camera. It was Molly, wrapped up in a long coat against the evening chill. He gritted his teeth, considered ignoring her, considered shooting her, but then felt a resignation settle on him like dust. Perhaps, just for old time's sake, he'd say a last goodbye. Maybe he'd strangle her and just leave her here until the smell of her decomposing body drew a neighbour's attention.

He buzzed her in, and waited for her in the open door frame. She looked wild-eyed and pale, her hair loose and down around her face, her typically makeup-free face done up with some mascara and a bit of clear lip gloss, but it had gone a bit runny at the edges, giving her a used look.

"We need to talk," she said, and her voice quavered, higher than usual.

"Now's not the best time, lamb," he said mildly, thinking of the silenced Sig Sauer Elite lying on his bedspread in the other room. He felt the phantom trigger against his finger, and smiled at her.

She pushed past him, and turned, her face tight and lips a perfectly straight line. "Is it you?"

Jim affected polite confusion. "Is what me?"

"The bombings. The murders."

"I don't know what you mean," he said, but the conviction behind the words had vanished. He had already decided that Molly Hooper would not be leaving the flat alive; what harm would be there be in showing his hand a little?

So confident was he that he didn't anticipate what happened next, and was utterly surprised by the blow from the back of her hand, her knuckles biting into his cheekbone. He staggered, put a hand to his face and straightened up, looking at her in undisguised amazement. Even more amazing was the expression on her face, a mask of rage he'd never seen. Her lips were drawn back to show her teeth, and her nostrils flared, hand raised to strike him again.

"You liar," she said, her voice still shaking, but now from unsuppressed hatred. "You bastard. You and Sherlock, think you can just take what you want without anyone stopping you. I'm not...I won't..."

She looked as though she was about to attack him again, but Jim wasn't having any of that. He stared into her face, gave her his most dead-eyed, perilous expression. "Coming here was stupid, Molly."

"Don't you call me stupid," she hissed. "Not when you put down Carl Power's old number on that piece of paper. I picked it out of the waste basket. You're just lucky he didn't call it."

"That wasn't luck," he said calmly, touching a finger to his throbbing temple. "I knew he'd ignore it, just like he ignores you. Disposable. Irrelevant. Convenient."

"Shut up!" she barked, and stepped forward, advancing on him. "The both of you can go to hell."

Something occurred to him. A whisper of thought. He stared down at her, a frisson running through him. "If you checked out the number, then you must have known all of this for at least a week."

She frowned. "Yes. Of course. Why?"

"Because," he said, just a trace of glee in his voice. "You still met with me. You still shagged me. Were you in denial, or were you just stupid? You knew what I could do to you."

"I pieced together the people you blew apart," she said, her voice now so quiet that it was remarkable he could hear it at all. "I know what you can do."

"Then why are you here?"

She bit her lip, her fists clenched, looking like the absolute picture of wrath. "I don't..."

"Could it be," he continued, merciless. "That even though Sherlock is infinitely less likely to kill you, you're still more afraid to confront him?"

"Don't even," she said, and now her tone was even, and cold. "What you did is so much worse."

"What I'm going to do is much worse." Dead again, absolutely devoid of emotion. But it was surface, because underneath, he had found himself faced with a quandary. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but something was keeping him from seizing that delicate neck in his hands and bending it until it cracked.

He passed by her, turned, and shucked off his coat, laying it on the sofa. Then he sank down into it and watched her shrewdly, as her anger started to dissipate and the hurt underneath began to show. But there was something else. Something different about her rage that had evolved in the space of a few moments.

"You didn't warn him," he said softly. "Your bonnie lad. You didn't say a word to him. You must have been on call for at least three of my little projects, watching him try to puzzle it out, and didn't speak up. Are you really that angry with him?"

She stopped. Just froze, completely, didn't blink, didn't breathe. Then she took a slow, halting breath. "Five years. Five years of..."

"It isn't even friendship, Molly," he said, now in his softest voice. He had discarded the idea of the gun. He wanted to kill her with his bare hands, a desire that went through him, tightened at his core. He wanted to put his hands on her.

"I know," she said, and now her voice was again almost inaudible. "But you, you took it so far the other way. You didn't have to. Friendship would've been enough. I was that desperate."

"Of course," he said kindly. "But where's the fun in that, Molly-girl?"

"Bastard," she said, but all the heart seemed to have gone out of her.

"Are you going to let me kill him?" he asked quietly, then grinned. "Would you like to watch?"

"No," she said, smiling back. "I think he'll beat you."

"Oh, indeed," he grinned back. "But let's not stray too far from the fact that you let me play it out. People are dead because of you."

She knew it, too. She had grasped the reality of that, and it had fuelled her anger. That hesitation. That internal struggle. She said nothing, but took a step forward. He was prepared, if she tried to hit him again, ready to seize her wrist, break her arm. Maybe he'd kick her right in the sternum. Or maybe he'd just crush her windpipe, whisper sweet nothings into her ear. Or maybe...

"You want in on the game," he said. "You want to play with the boys. You wanted to watch us play against each other, more than you wanted to do the right thing."

"No," she said, utterly without conviction. "I didn't...it wasn't..."

"Come here," he said, beckoning. "Sit down."

She regarded him imperiously for a moment, and then, very slowly, almost cautiously, sat down next to him, just barely within arm's reach. The perfect distance.

"Why, love? Tell us. Do you want to be the bad girl, is that it?"

She watched him for a long moment, while he watched that tiny shift behind her doe eyes, that little clicking into place that meant that some final, deep understanding had been achieved.

"I've been a good girl my whole life," she began slowly, choosing her words carefully. "But if this is what I'm going to get for being a good girl, for being the nice girl, the kind girl...then you're right, and I am stupid."

"But..."

She sighed, relaxing through her shoulders, leaning back into the luxurious leather. "I'm tired of it. I'm so bored, or I was until you came along, Jim. I don't want to be bored anymore."

"I could kill you," he repeated.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I know."

"You still came here."

"Yes."

"You let me kill people."

She nodded.

He smiled, just the corner of his mouth tugging to show his incisors. "It gets you hot, doesn't it."

She looked down, a demonstration of shame, but when she looked up, there was something in her eyes that confirmed his assertion, something that was making her pupils dilate and her lips part. She pulled open the coat and let it slide down her body, revealing a black lace dress that went down to mid-thigh, and was dangerously transparent in some places. She wasn't wearing a bra, and he could see the soft lines of her breasts underneath the sheer fabric. The black garters and stockings, too, had caught his attention. He was again assaulted with questions. How, he wondered, had she expected this conversation to go? That he would claim ignorance, convince her of his innocence, and then shag her silly just to prove it? Maybe she wanted to leave a good looking corpse. Or maybe she didn't care. Maybe for the first time, Molly had decided to stop hiding herself behind all that cuteness, all that innocence. Maybe it was always there.

He couldn't stop himself as he reached for her, just with two fingers, reached and touched the skin of her throat. Then his hand circled her neck, loosely, applying the faintest bit of pressure with the webbing between thumb and forefinger.

Her eyes clouded, and she breathed lightly, calm, waiting for his move. It was enough. He seized her thighs and tugged her into his lap, letting her feel the erection that was already straining through the Westwood's trousers. She let out a little noise of surprise, which turned into a harsh, wanting need as she moaned into his mouth, arms wrapping around him, one hand grasping his short cropped hair and forcing his head back, making him look at her.

It was like the volume had been turned all the way down, but the ringing was still there in his ears. He tasted her, her mouth salty as though she had been swimming in the sea. His hands slid up her thighs, fingers playing along her skin, discovering that she wasn't wearing any underwear, and then he knew for sure that she had been playing a dangerous game with him, too. The thought of it got him harder, if possible, and he thumbed the bones of her hips, held her, watched her and waited for the sentence to fall.

"Jim," she murmured.

"Darling."

"Fuck me."

She was wet, so dripping wet, that he wondered that she hadn't been wet for him the moment she'd buzzed his flat. He worked himself out of his trousers and shoved her dress up far enough so that he could put his mouth on her sternum, letting out a broken "uh" in two syllables as in a single, torturously slow movement, she lowered herself onto him, taking her into him all the way. She settled in comfortably, and put one hand on his shoulder, the other mirroring him by resting loosely at the base of his throat.

"I'm so cross with you, Jim," she said in an almost gentle voice as she began to ride him, making his breath catch. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

"You could do anything," he whispered. "You said it already. You're tired of holding back."

"So tired," she sighed, letting her head fall back. He leaned up into her, ignoring her hand on his neck as he kissed the hollow of her throat.

"So don't," he advised. "Don't hold back. Just put it on me, love."

Her hand tightened and she put her weight behind it, forcing him on to his back. The eyes that watched him were wide, fascinated, the same kind of clinical fascination he'd seen on her face as she extracted information from a corpse. He liked her best at those times. The last time he'd seen her at it, it had been a corpse he'd made out of the Prince woman. And he remembered, with another little thrill, that she had known the person who had induced the circumstances was standing behind her, watching her work. She had not lost her focus. She had delighted in his interest.

The rhythm she had set was murdering him, but he didn't want her to stop, watched her as she watched him, mouth open, slow-motion fucking him at a pace that matched her breathing. He put his hand on her abdomen, feeling her heart beat rattling through her entire body. Then he moved that hand down, applied pressure, sliding his thumb into her slick folds and teasing her, just so.

"Oh," she said, and it was just a little shudder that ran through her. The strength in her legs had so far been impressive, but it was beginning to fail her. With some skilled manoeuvring, he raised himself, seized her and shoved her down on to her front. She whimpered as he slid back into her, raised herself on to her forearms, head tossed back. He seized her hair in one hand, mouth working at her neck, teeth nipping here and there, then finally biting, sucking, raising a purple welt right where her jaw muscle connected to her neck. Then another mark on her throat, indicative of the place where his thumb would depress, if he chose to have her that way, to take her entirely and leave nothing behind.

His other hand cupped one of her breasts roughly, fingers digging in. It hurt her, he knew, but everything her body was doing spelled out just how much she didn't care. How quickly she was learning to love pain. And God, what she was doing now, twisting those muscles, thrusting back against him, her arse curving perfectly to him, thighs cleaving to him as he pressed harder into her, that was almost too much.

Then he stopped. Stopped entirely, just froze, and he felt the air escape her lungs. She didn't look at him, but put her face down on her arms, whole body shivering with the effort of holding herself up.

"Don't stop," she murmured.

He stroked a finger from the base of her neck, to the small of her back, lamenting the bunched up black lace that was interrupting his view.

"I'm not stopping," he said, his tone dripping with licentiousness. "I'm just getting started."

She twisted her body around to face him, her expression almost...curious. He pulled her to him, lifted her in his arms, ignoring her little mew of surprise. He carried her into the bedroom and lowered her on to the rarely-used master bed.

The gun sitting next to her did not escape her notice, and she touched it with two fingers. The curious expression remained, and the tiny smile that crossed her lips struck him harder than she had a short while ago. He watched, almost painfully fascinated, as she lifted the gun, stroked the trigger, and fixed him with a suddenly determined expression.

"Get undressed," she instructed. "Now."

He hesitated for a moment, and then acquiesced, sliding out of the now sweaty Westwood trousers, and peeling off the Saville Row shirt. He then stepped out of his boxer shorts and kicked them away, standing naked and unashamed before her.

With surprising deftness, she was able to shimmy out of the dress, using one hand to pull it over her head. Now she was naked, except for the garter belt and stockings, one of which had come undone and had rolled down her thigh. The skin of her inner thigh glistened with her own wetness, and he licked his lips, wanting to lap it up. He wanted to make her scream. But it appeared he would have to wait, while she made up her mind on how she wanted to play.

Holding the gun trained on him, she stood and motioned towards the bed. Watching her carefully, he turned and sat down on it, waiting for her to decide. Was she going to shoot him, after all? He wasn't sure. Not being able to predict her, that was new. New and exciting. Surprising, too. When was the last time a lover had surprised him?

"You like this," she said, eyebrow raised. "You're sick."

"Cure me, doctor," he mocked, and was rewarded with the suppressor shoved up against his ribs. But for all her threatening attitude, it was the sight of her going on her knees before him that sent a shudder through his entire body.

He had schooled her on his preferences when it came to oral sex, but she had always really been afraid to make an effort. Messy was better, he'd said. But Molly was such a sparkly clean girl. Not anymore. The initial soft kiss on the head of his penis had caused his body to go stiff, but as she got more comfortable, he surrendered entirely to her, groaning out loud as she sucked on him, softly at first, then harder, wet, sloppy, saliva dripping. Gagging on him, but then learning, breathing, all the while the gun lodged in his ribs, her finger just a hair away from blowing a hole through him.

She waited, sensing the moment when he was about to explode, then pulled back, a maddening, coquettish grin on her face. He snarled his frustration.

"Bitch," he gasped.

"Would you prefer I shoot you?" she asked sweetly, using her fingers to gather up the saliva that adorned the corners of her mouth, and licking them clean. He could've come right then, watching her do that, but he held himself back. Patience.

"My turn," he purred, switching gears. He snatched the gun out of her hand. She gave a little squeak of surprise, and then a cry as he seized her by the hair and yanked her around, pulling her into his lap so that she faced away from him, his legs on either side of her. He lay the cold metal of the suppressor against her abdomen, felt her shiver.

"Jim," she said quietly, a little apprehension rising in her voice.

He pressed his mouth to her ear. "Do you know how many people I've killed with this?"

Silently, she shook her head. Her whole body had gone tense, he could feel it. He stroked her breasts, gentle now, letting the barrel dip just a little lower, caressing the inside of her thigh.

"Neither do I," he confided. "I've lost count."

"Jim," she said again, but there was something else in her voice. She sounded drugged. The very wrongness of it was slithering through her, making her relax, making her wonder, making her almost want him to do it.

He turned his wrist and let the long steel barrel of the suppressor run between her legs, just brushing her clit. He felt her jerk, whether in recoil or pleasure, he couldn't tell. He wrapped his arm around her, pinning her arms in place, and continued the motion, pressing harder now. He worked the barrel against her until it was slick and wet as she was, and she was writhing, moaning, caught in a torpor of ecstasy, and sensation, now grinding against the pistol.

"God, I'm going to..."

Then he stopped again, and she actually uttered a soft scream. He tossed the gun away, twisted her by the hair and pulled her into him, tilting her on to her back. Before she could say anything, he was inside her again, thrusting hard into her, slamming into her, so that the breath was knocked out of her, and she was gasping for air. He pressed his hand down on her throat, applying just a little pressure, watching her face. God, she was so intoxicated. Makeup running in streams of tears now, she arched, reaching back to grasp the edge of the bed as he pounded mercilessly into her.

"Let it happen, Molly," he whispered. "Die for me. Just a little. I want to watch."

The light dimmed in her eyes. Something seized inside her, muscles that performed an extreme contraction, locking around him, squeezing around him, and suddenly he felt it too, the inescapable feeling of total surrender, the death of thought, the tranquillity of nothing, the overwhelming stimuli that flooded his senses as he came harder than he'd ever done, emptying into her. She went limp, but still twitching occasionally, dying a little. Then she went still, utterly still, her eyes just half mast, her mouth open. She didn't breathe, and he watched her, just as breathless, just as still.

Then she sighed, eyes closing all the way, breasts rising again in a steadying rhythm. He sprawled across her, his limbs going rubbery, and he inhaled deeply, his head tucked against her neck.

"Mmmm," she hummed. "That was good."

"Christ, Molly," he said, raising his head to look at him. "Only good?"

"I just don't want to get too attached," she said lightly. "I've learned my lesson."

"Have you now," he replied wryly, letting his hand traverse her damp skin.

"I just..." she sighed again. "I wanted you one more time."

"Ah," he said, and smiled against her skin. "Before your Sherlock whips my arse, is that it?"

"He's not my Sherlock," she chastised harshly, then her voice softened. "But you're still my Jim."

He arched a brow, and looked at her again. "Am I, now?"

She fixed him with a long stare. "Yes. You are."

"Does that mean you're my Molly?" he asked, teasingly, but with that hint of violence under his tone.

"I suppose it does," she conceded, stretching out. Coiled around her as he was, he could feel her bones clicking, vertebrae cracking.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just past 10 pm. A little less than two hours to figure out this puzzle. It wasn't enough time, he lamented. But there'd be time later. Later when Sherlock Holmes was on the slab.

Would she mourn, he wondered? Would she cry? Or would she wonder why it hadn't happened sooner? He'd be there to console her. He'd have her bent over her desk, shag her in full view of the security cameras, her dead friend, whatever was left of him, in a refrigerated drawer somewhere. Maybe she'd let him keep a piece. It was a yummy thought, enough to make him shiver again.

She turned her face into his, and closed her eyes, falling into a light doze. She looked so vulnerable, so soft, but he wouldn't make the mistake of letting himself be fooled into believing that again. Oh, if given the opportunity, he could develop her into so much more. He could forgive her, he decided, if she was hurt by his victory. After all, she had made it possible. He would remind her, while he was inside her, kiss away those tears, and then make it all better.

He would be kind in breaking Molly Hooper. Just kind enough to fix her afterwards. 


End file.
